Page 53 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
“You may partner Lady Pembroke,” Saffron Dress decided.
A frail-looking woman in a violet gown squinted at the practice hand she had been dealt. Antonia sighed. If she lost at cards, she would have to make herself obnoxious and provoke an individual match with the Dowager Duchess.
You beat Lady Summervale once. Don’t give up hope before you begin.Antonia settled herself opposite the elderly lady and scooped up the hand she had been dealt. The woman in the saffron gown marked the start of a new rubber, the paper tally used to keep score.
“What happens for the people who don’t make the higher rounds?” asked Antonia. She fanned the cards. A decent hand. She organized them by suit and by number. Lady Pembroke did the same.
“They can play for penny ante.” Lady Woolryte sniffed, as though she would never stoop to playing for pennies when there were pounds to be had. “Or they can watch, or leave.”
Antonia had no doubts about which option her companions preferred. They thought her a lamb to be skinned. Antonia did not know what to make of them. Fortunately, the practice hand let her assess her opponents and partner. Lady Pembroke’s gnarled hands might be slow with age, but her mind was clearly as sharp as ever. She scooped up three tricks in a row before Lady Woolryte managed to score the next two. Antonia deployed her trump cards and took three of the next four hands.
“Beginner’s luck,” said Lady Woolryte as the lady in the saffron gown tallied their scores.
“Nobody likes a sore loser,” Lady Pembroke replied. “Besides, you have two more chances to beat me and Miss Lowry.” She flipped and shuffled the deck with skill that spoke of many an afternoon passed playing whist. Antonia caught the older lady’s eye and winked.
Lady Pembroke arched one eyebrow and passed out the cards. “We played a good hand. Keep it up, Miss Lowry, and we may well go home with our pockets jingling this afternoon.”
“I raise the ante,” Antonia said as they settled in for the next game. A hush fell over the room as the other two tables of players paused to listen. She stripped another hundred pounds from her roll of bank notes and threw them into the middle of the table.
The fine ladies stared at it as though she had thrown the carcass of a dead animal. For one wild moment, Antonia thought she had overplayed her hand. But then Lady Pembroke tossed a pile of coins on top. “Ten guineas,” she announced.
Saffron Gown and Lady Woolryte look at one another and then to their hostess.
The Dowager Duchess of Summervale glanced over and nodded once. “You've my permission to relieve the American of her money.”
Saffron gown smirked. “I bid my new pashmina shawl. Lady Jersey turned quite green with envy upon seeing it.”
“I'm pretending I didn't hear that, Julia.” Lady Jersey snapped the card down with force sufficient to demonstrate that she had not forgotten Antonia’s conduct at Almack’s a few days earlier.
The ladies returned to their card game in earnest. The mood in the well-appointed parlor had taken on a charged quality. Cards skimmed over the table. Chips slid and clinked as the rubber scored their progress. Lady Pembroke and Antonia lost the next round by a single trick.
“Do we wish to sweeten the betting pot again?” asked Julia with a sneer of satisfaction.
“It's the best two out of three.” Antonia tossed another roll of banknotes onto the pile. The loss had rattled her. The cold and self-preserving part of her whispered that she should have taken Malcolm's money and run when she had the chance.
She could lose everything with a single turn of cards. All five thousand pounds, when she factored in what she had already spent on expensive dresses to make these women view her as both a worthy opponent and a bug in need of squashing to preserve theirstandards. Antonia’s palms dampened inside her gloves. Paper whisked across the table.
“Damn.” Julia threw the final trick into the center of the table. “I'm out. The pashmina is the wrong color for me, anyway.” As she was one of the few women Antonia had ever met who could wear the deep gold color and look lovely in it, she doubted any pashmina had the ability to make her look less than stunning. “Enjoy it, Lady Jersey, if you can pluck it away from our newest member.”
“Miss Lowry may have beaten you, but she hasn’t beaten us yet,” said Lady Jersey’s partner, whose name Antonia didn’t know.
Lady Pembroke tapped Antonia’s arm. “You make a good partner.”
“As do you.” Antonia whispered conspiratorially. She’d be damned before she admitted to any of these women how out of place she felt. Antonia’s pride stung at how quickly she latched onto any hint of friendship. A few weeks ago, she would have cheerfully fleeced these women out of their money and jewels, without a second thought.
Malcolm had done this to her. He had peeled away her defenses. Filed down her sharp edges. Margaret had softened her further by burrowing into her heart and making a soft nest for her to rest. Antonia hadn’t realized how tired she was of hiding from the world until she no longer needed to.
“I wish you luck. If we make it through the next three games, we have a good chance of taking the pot. I haven't seen one so good in months.” Lady Pembroke appeared gleeful at the prospect.
“Do we switch partners for each round?” Antonia asked.
“If you want to, we can trade. I like the way you play, though. Strategic.” The old woman tapped her temple. “You’ll need that when we’re up against Lady Summervale.”
That was not to happen during the next round. They faced off against two women Antonia did not recognize, and won. Each time, she sweetened the pot. Each time, the other women followed eagerly. Whist sharks, Antonia thought ruefully as she snatched the final, winning trick.
They took a short break to refresh themselves with tea and biscuits. The pile of coins and paper, a pashmina, two silver bracelets, and a ring sat in an obscene heap in the center of the table.
When they again took their places, Lady Summervale settled heavily into the chair. “I’ve no further appetite for wagers. The pot is sufficient.”
